


A Sweet Disorder

by jat_sapphire



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, PWP, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-28 01:46:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15038009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jat_sapphire/pseuds/jat_sapphire
Summary: A sweet disorder in the dressKindles in clothes a wantonness





	A Sweet Disorder

**Author's Note:**

> Some language here suggests power exchange, but I think people who like that will find this unsatisfying.

A day in Records was one of Bodie's least favourite ways to earn his pittance. It beat being shot, he supposed, and certainly beat Doyle being kidnapped or shot, but spending a day bored into a bloody _coma_ was enough for him to contemplate cutting his wrists with one of the rest room's plastic spoons.

Not today, though.

His aggravating, teasing sod of a partner cast a grin over his shoulder and said, “Call it a day?”

“Day,” growled Bodie. He shut the manila folder with as much of a snap as its papers would allow and got to his feet, feeling his belt shift at his waist, the cloth move on his arms and thighs, refusing to notice what Doyle was _looking_ at. No, Bodie professionally, coolly, placed the folder into the current basket so he could go straight back to it in the morning. Then he stood with his back to the room and waited for Doyle.

He knew Doyle had more tidying to do. His method with files was to haul out a handful and lay them across the open drawer top, balanced on other files, paging through each of them, digging around like a dachshund after a badger until he was ready to poke them back in their home drawers. Arse flexing a little as he wrestled with the folders. The file drawers were tight. Bodie closed his eyes at his own thoughts. _Tight drawers. No, probably_ no _drawers._

He heard the slide of the cabinet track, the click of the latch. “I'll meet you at yours,” Bodie said tightly.

Tapping steps came closer, up behind him. “I could drive us both.” A smile in that voice.

Bodie turned. Doyle was close, and his smile was softer than Bodie had imagined, but still he insisted, “No, I'll drive tonight.”

Ray's eyes glinted, his eyebrows tilted, the shape of his mouth changed. _That mouth_. “Yeah? You will?”

In lieu of all the movements which burst into his imagination, Bodie poked one finger into that curly chest hair, between the open plackets of the checked shirt Doyle was nominally wearing, and said, “You, sunshine, are the petrol in this metaphor.”

Ray laughed, one of the short, low laughs that he had to know was like a touch. Bodie managed to take his finger back, and Ray stepped away easily. And at last they left the bloody file room.

Driving was at least not the challenge it would have been with Doyle's open leather jacket creaking in the passenger seat, that laugh in Bodie's real ears as well as in his mind. Doyle's car moved smoothly ahead, just a little above the speed limit. It slid into a parking spot right in front of his flat, but Bodie had to go halfway to the next zebra crossing to find room for his own car.

Doyle was waiting at the street entrance, one shoulder on the door frame and his hip out, arms crossed on his chest and legs crossed at the ankles. His keys were in one hand, but the door was still shut. Bodie's breathing quickened, and he wanted to pin Ray right there, but managed to put his hand higher on the stone than Ray's shoulder. He opened his mouth to speak, but Ray forestalled him, handing him the key ring.

“Since you're driving,” he said, though the rebellious glint was still in his expression.

Bodie unlocked the door, and they went in. Once they were on the first floor and at the back where Doyle's flat was, Bodie would have given the keys back, but Doyle just waved them off. Such a little thing, but Bodie felt a wave of gratitude. Sometimes he needed the challenge and struggle, wrestling and shoving, wall or coffee table or chair, but tonight he wasn't looking forward to any contest of dominance any more than he wanted a round at the pub or a stop at the takeaway. And apparently they were agreed. Because Ray was waiting again, there in the space between door and couch and coat rack, standing simply, hands open at his sides as his jacket and shirt were.

“This all right?” Bodie double-checked.

“Well, depending,” Ray said. “No handcuffs or whipping cream, you know. Terrible to clean up, that is.”

Bodie laughed. And at last, he could touch, he could fit his shaking hand to Ray's cheek, he could step closer and bend his head and have that lovely, smiling mouth. The kiss was deep and wet, the chipped tooth scraping Bodie's tongue, and then he flirted the tip on the palate ridges above and Ray moved in his arms, against his hips, and tilted his head back. Of his thousand smiles, this was the one that creased down his cheeks and made him look as if he were basking in the sun. “All day, you bastard,” Bodie murmured. “Teasing me all day.”

“Oh, just me, was that. You weren't standing up to stretch and letting your polo ride up,” while Ray put his fingers on that little bit of skin just above Bodie's belt, then into his trousers' waist band to dip into the navel and feel below, circle on his skin, “you jammy sod, or rotating your shoulders or stretching your back, showing off.”

“I'm a simple man, I am. I don't like to get stiff at a desk.” Bodie flexed his arse and pressed his cock against Ray's, kissed him again and cupped his round bum in its tight, tight denim.

Ray stroked and grabbed at his back. “Stiff in the sitting room is all right, then.”

“Stiff in a bed's what I'm after.”

Ray slapped his shoulder. “You know where it is, y' great lummox. You're the one standing here for the evening. Drive? You're stalled, you are.”

Turning Ray around with hands on his hips, Bodie made him face toward the bedroom and gave him a push in that direction, saying, “Go on in, then, take off those chav boots and your jacket and stand by the bed. I'll be right behind you.”

“Oh, will you, big butch brute.” And then he snickered, but he was also on his way.

Bodie followed, pulling his jacket off, and when he was in the bedroom, stripped himself while Ray watched, barefoot.

“Driving school ...” Ray murmured.

Bodie didn't answer, because it was not conversation he was after, and because if Ray didn't know that being the naked one could be powerful, well, they could revise that O level later.

Two steps closer, no more, and Ray was within reach. Bodie put his hands between the front belt loops, rested them there an instant, framing that heavy bulge, stroking with the backs of his fingers as it grew heavier. Then he unbuttoned the flies, unzipped them, eased the denim over Ray's arse and down to his thighs, stood back to consider, then tugged them down just a little more and looked again. With his shirt hanging open and his feet bare … “I see a wild civility,” Bodie quoted. Ray wouldn't have stood still for an entire poem, but there had to be a moment to put this debauched image in Bodie's memory forever.

Close again, Bodie did up the shirt buttons, and Ray smiled blindingly. “Reverse gear, Bodie?”

“I'll tell you. This—” buttoned up to the collar— “is normal.” He undid the two top buttons. “That's how I wear a shirt. This was nine o'clock, when we'd been there an hour—” two more buttons, which exposed about a four-inch triangle of Ray's chest hair. Bodie bent to kiss and lick there, as he'd thought of doing at 9:00, already tired of paper-shuffling. Ray's hands came to Bodie's shoulders and gripped hard, and followed as Bodie went to one knee and mouthed Ray's cock through his pants.

“Nine,” Ray said faintly, swaying a little as his cock stirred and grew some more.

Bodie's mouth watered even as he sucked and licked the cloth. He nuzzled and put as much of his lips and tongue as he could through the opening on the right side of the Y, finding pubic hair and just a little skin, until Ray shifted his hips and got some more cock in the way. Still, Bodie needed to pull down the pants to meet the jeans, and then get both down to just above Ray's knees, stroking and petting the crisp hair on Ray's thighs, and round the back in the crease just under his bum. Ray made a humming sound, and his arse clenched and then relaxed.

Bodie stood up again, not touching Ray's cock as it stood too, bumping the last shirt button.

Now he unfastened two more, said, “Elevenses,” and played with the new skin and hair. In the office they'd made tea and liberated a packet of digestives, and Bodie'd been surprised that the checked shirt was farther open, never having seen Doyle touch it. As if the buttons undid themselves, as if Ray's natural state was bare-chested, no matter where he was.

Stretching the opening down, Bodie could tongue nearly to the end of Ray's breastbone; stretching to left and then to right, the inside edge of areolae were there to kiss and rub teeth against, and Ray was rocking his hips now, so Bodie held him up by the shoulders.

Only one more button for “Lunch.” Bodie could reach nipples now, and Ray's head fell back, mouth a little open for a new breathless, wordless sound, as Bodie licked and nibbled and the shirt was pulled this way and that. While rolling a nipple with his lips, Bodie reached between to get the last button or two, the sides of his hands brushing the head of Ray's cock, which was wet, which had made the shirt placket wet, and Bodie grasped Ray's waist because he nearly fell backward, and hearing “Tea-time,” Ray moaned. Bodie tongued his navel. Ray's knees gave way, and Bodie guided him down to sit on the bed, taking a moment to strip off trousers and pants.

By this time, Bodie's own cock had been bobbing and jerking for some time, as stiff as it could get, but he wasn't finished taking Ray apart yet. He slipped the shirt completely off and tossed it somewhere near his own clothes while Ray collapsed, back flat on the mattress. Bodie knelt between Ray's legs and rubbed up and down hairy thighs, sucked in Ray's cock like candy and took him, took everything he gave, while Ray wailed and tried to push his hips up to fuck Bodie's mouth.

As Ray shrank and softened on his tongue, Bodie hummed his satisfaction, and Ray lay on the bed, unstrung as a broken marionette. Bodie knelt up, vibrating like a live wire, and managed, “Driver's school, did you say?” though his voice sounded as though he had been shouting all afternoon.

“I give in, Mario,” Ray said, his own voice fractured. “Indy 500, you are.”

That was another lovely view, Ray's abandonment, but Bodie couldn't look long before he said, “Pick up your knees.”

“Don't think I can,” and he was right: when Bodie pulled them up toward Ray's shoulders, the long muscles were already shaking. He put them back down, so Ray's feet were on the floor again.

“I didn't say _stop,_ ” Ray complained. He waved at the bedside table. “Get the lube there, will you?” And sure enough, there was a tube behind the alarm clock.

Bodie picked it up, noticing that it had lost its label and was crumpled all over, rolled at the end like toothpaste. “Use this every day?”

“Like wanking with it.”

“Spit not good enough?” Bodie took himself in hand, made sure he was slippery. “Here, a pillow for me knees?” Ray made a long arm, and Bodie sealed another image to bring back some time when Ray would be busy, or with a woman, or away, and that stretch of muscle from his armpit, the bush of damp hair there, the pectoral pulled in a longer shape, the side muscle bulging—all that would one day be memory only. In fact—the pillow struck him in the chest—it was memory already, and he had his own orgasm to chase.

Ray held his own thighs once Bodie put his knees up again, and Bodie felt that little furled skin with lubed fingers, circled and played with it, tickled and pressed. Ray's feet moved restlessly. He squirmed as Bodie's fingers moved in him, stroking the slick, smooth, rippling muscles inside. Strong everywhere, Ray was.

“Go on, go on.” Ray spoke through gritted teeth.

So Bodie did, popped the head through that first ring of muscle, and they both grunted with the strain. Bodie gripped both Ray's knees, petted them in small circles, pushed in, pushed in, grasped the cheeks of Ray's arse, kneaded them, stroked the rigid forearms to elbow and back, pushed in. Ray was making a low-pitched, puffing sound like a steam engine, and once Bodie started moving in that tight, hot, grasping space—in Ray—he felt as if he could piston forever, hear Ray's breaths and that long moan and the puff of his own exhalations forever, feel waves and waves of pleasure forever, imagine his hair rising, find himself not so much ejaculating as blowing through Ray like a slow rifle blast.

Not forever.

Ray let his legs down; Bodie collapsed with his cheek on Ray's ribs, one hand on a biceps and the other on his upper chest, feeling the stampede of their two hearts gradually calm. Then Bodie scooped his arms under Ray's back and shoulders and dragged him all the way onto the mattress, so he could get on too.

As energy returned, they wriggled into more comfortable positions, Ray nearest the wall, Bodie thinking drowsily of getting that pillow back. “Wear a t-shirt tomorrow, will you?” he muttered. “I do need to find those addresses for Jensen's informants.”

“Tell you what,” Ray answered, “you wear an oxford then. Button cuffs, none o' your poncey cuff links.” He squirmed, swallowed. “And it's my turn next.”

Bodie smiled with his eyes closed, thinking about cuffs undone, that _more bewitch me, than when art/Is too precise in every part._ “Something to look forward to.” His stomach growled. “Besides dinner.”

“Oh, not now,” Ray groaned.

“Kip first,” Bodie agreed, so they did.

**Author's Note:**

> Bodie's poem is by Robert Herrick:
> 
> A sweet disorder in the dress  
> Kindles in clothes a wantonness—  
> A lawn about the shoulders thrown  
> Into a fine distraction—  
> An erring lace, which here and there  
> Enthrals the crimson stomacher—  
> A cuff neglectful, and thereby  
> Ribbands to flow confusedly—  
> A winning wave, deserving note,  
> In the tempestuous petticoat—  
> A careless shoestring, in whose tie  
> I see a wild civility—  
> Do more bewitch me, than when art  
> Is too precise in every part.


End file.
